


A following sea

by deliarium



Category: The Charioteer - Mary Renault
Genre: Canon Gay Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon, Reconciliation, Suicidal Thoughts, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-05 14:39:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12796599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliarium/pseuds/deliarium
Summary: In the morning Ralph reflects, and he and Laurie begin to pick up the pieces.





	A following sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cori Lannam (corilannam)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/corilannam/gifts).



Later Ralph would not recall much of what was said between them in the immediate aftermath; he would not be able to say whether it was he who approached Spud first—or if it was Spud who had come to him—or if they had been drawn desperately, instinctively, into each other’s arms, without any further need of words. For the rest of the hour they had sat close together on one of the overstuffed chairs and held each other, staring into the fire that had been sputtering around the charred remains of Ralph’s journals—the long stretch of silence interrupted at times by Spud’s soft, insistent assurances, which only dimly penetrated through the haze clouding Ralph’s mind. Ralph had not felt much like speaking then. He had been too preoccupied with convincing himself of the physical reality of Spud’s presence—still quite unable to believe that he had not truly driven Spud away, as it seemed he had been destined to drive away everything else in his life.

Spud’s face had been ghostly pale and drawn, as if he were going to collapse from sheer exhaustion at any moment, and so they had soon turned in without much more discussion. Ralph had made sure to toss the letters discreetly onto the dying embers of the fire before sliding into bed next to Spud and gently curling his arm around him, in a manner that seemed to have already become habitual.

Now the first cold rays of morning light were starting to seep through the open blackout. Ralph, conditioned as he was to early hours, had woken in the pitch darkness with a foreboding sense of alarm whose source he could not place, and was immediately comforted by the shadowy image of Spud slumbering quietly at his side. After drawing aside the blackout he’d laid back down and steadily drunk in the sight of his lover in repose, his affection no less profound for his slight weariness: Spud’s tousled auburn hair spilling out in waves onto the pillow, the bronze tints transitioning to copper in the low light; the slow rise and fall of his chest under the curve of Ralph’s hand; the way his brow faintly crinkled in sleep as if he were contemplating some vague philosophical quandary; the smooth, innocent lines of his face, lightly etched with strain and fatigue. He had the remnants of a university swimmer’s build, somewhat worn away from the months of combat and subsequent injury, and the physical blemishes of war that, to Ralph, only made him all the more worthy of loving.

Ralph was suddenly reminded of the first time they had lain like this, immersed in soft patches of shadow and the orange, entrancing glow of firelight, safe within the enclosure of Spud’s idyllic countryside home. He had awoken in a state of deep tranquility that seemed to sink into his bones, and for once in his life he had felt utterly at peace with himself. He’d recalled how during one of their rows Alec had once snapped that Ralph must be constitutionally incapable of ever keeping still for more than a few minutes. As with most things Alec generally had a point: Ralph had indeed noticed a certain tension within him that tended to flare up whenever he was not at sea, or else kept purposefully occupied—a restless energy that, since Dunkirk, had tipped over into casual destructiveness in all areas of his private life. Somehow when he was with Spuddy all the agitation and turmoil roiling around inside him seemed to—not dissipate, exactly—but temporarily recede, until the weight of it became lighter, calmer, more endurable. Even now, with the soothingly warm press of Spud’s body against his, Ralph could almost forget that hours ago he had nearly given into the darkest corners of his subconscious and ended it all, with swift and bleak permanence.

There had only been one other time in his life that he had ever drifted as close to the edge, the day he had returned home from school after his expulsion. His mother had been weeping irately, inconsolably, over her prayer book in the other room, and he had thought of the gun his father kept carefully concealed in his study, which Ralph had accidentally discovered one day when he had been sent there for a beating. It would have been the quick and easy way out, far easier than the path he ended up walking. He might very well have gone through with it, had it not been for the memory of a certain, stolen kiss shared in the secrecy of the prefect’s study, and the inescapable thought that he would somehow be disappointing Spuddy if he never got to sea. At nineteen Ralph had believed he could possibly bear many things past the limits of most human endurance, but he could not bear the idea of letting down his beloved, even only in memory.

After Dunkirk the same sort of notion had begun casually seeding itself into the background of his thoughts, ever since the realization that there could no longer be a role for him at sea, which had always been a refuge for him in his times of aimlessness. His returned, unopened letter ( _Died of Wounds_ ) had sent him into a moment of black despair, touching off something that he had not known still existed within him. During his travels he had often heard stories of men who went mad from grief or loneliness, sailors who drowned themselves—literally or metaphorically—in the depths of their sorrows. He had once thought himself too hardened from experience to succumb to that particular abyss, but at last—in those solitary evenings at the bar after his discharge, numbing himself with drink, and the following nights of anonymous release—he’d found himself suddenly capable of grim recognition. Yet after miraculously reuniting with Spud at the party—even after he’d learned that Spud’s heart had not been left wholly vacant in his absence—he had allowed himself a small but fervent spark of hope that his luck had finally turned for the better.

He should have known that the course for him would never be smooth, that his past mistakes and failures would always return to haunt him and stain every shred of happiness he could ever achieve for himself. Even now it was difficult for him to suppress the fear that Spud would end up changing his mind and leaving him after all, that he would never prove to be necessary to anything or anyone. He was being afforded another chance he could hardly believe he deserved—as if someone had once more unexpectedly cast him a line and drawn him from the wreckage of a sunken ship, gasping and blinking into the sunlight.

Spud made a soft noise and slowly stirred underneath his arm, prompting Ralph to push his thoughts aside and focus solely on the beloved presence beside him. He tenderly pressed a kiss to Spud’s bare shoulder and then the firm angle of his jawline, with great care so as not to startle him. He suspected that Spud still hadn't quite grown accustomed to waking up beside another person like this, bodies entwined in such intimacy, though to Ralph it seemed as natural as if they had done this for many years.

"Hello, Spud," he murmured against Spud's skin, his voice low and rough.

"Morning," Spud replied sleepily, turning over and stifling a yawn. A dark, rumpled curl of hair tumbled boyishly into his eyes, which Ralph regarded with an absurd swell of fondness despite his trepidation.

"When will they be expecting you back?" Ralph asked, his hand cautiously tracing circles on Spud's shoulder.

Spud blinked. "Oh, not for a while. Alec fixed all that."

"Good." Ralph lifted his hand to cup Spud’s face, which was already growing flushed and warm under his fingertips.

They moved carefully at first, exchanging small touches and tentative caresses, slowly mapping each other out again, but it did not take long for the underlying pulse of desire to flame up and overcome their solicitousness. Spud after a while rolled them over and initially took the lead, in a way that Ralph sensed was partially induced by remorse, but nonetheless with a rather touchingly fierce attentiveness and devotion that belied his relative inexperience at such matters. Ralph could feel his taut muscles, almost forcibly held together with an iron-willed restraint, gradually loosening under the soft, steady heat of Spud's mouth. He relaxed further into it—resisting, with some difficulty, the impulse to immediately take care of everything for Spud, to put Spud's own evident needs first—and gradually found that he could even enjoy doing so, coming apart with a searing rush of pleasure mingled with deep, inexpressible relief.

After some time Spud was lying sprawled out on top of him, fingers drifting idly through Ralph’s fair, disheveled hair in an implicit claim, and spoke hesitantly over one of their usual cigarettes.

"I’ve been thinking, Ralph, and.....I'd like for us to start back from the beginning—that is, if you’re willing. I know I haven't exactly been—I mean, I've made such a bloody mess of everything—"

"Spud. I told you not to worry, didn't I?" Ralph lightly stroked his neck in the way Spud always liked, and was pleased to still feel Spud shudder reflexively at his touch.

"I know. Still—I shouldn't have spoken so harshly, or jumped to thinking the worst of you, without waiting to receive all the facts. I was just upset—and exhausted, really—but that's no excuse for everything I said."

"Nonsense. You didn't say anything but the truth, Spuddy," Ralph replied abruptly, with a sharper edge to his voice than he’d intended. "Lord knows I'd already bitched up everything of any real worth in my life up to that point—it was only a matter of time until I ruined something of yours, too."

"You couldn't have ruined something that never had a real chance of existing, because I made sure it couldn’t. I see now you were right on that point, even though I refused for so long to admit it to myself." Spud put out the cigarette and took Ralph’s absently fidgeting hand—the damaged one—in his. The harsh, unforgiving morning light exposed the gnarled scar tissue and made it look more mangled and claw-like than before, though Ralph did not pull away. "I never really thanked you for it, but so much of who I am today is because of everything you did for me, back at school. I can't imagine what direction my life might have taken if you hadn't come into it the way you had....and I wouldn't want to."

"Spuddy."

"It's just—I never expected to have any of this," Spud continued, with the sweetly intent earnestness that had always particularly endeared him to Ralph. "With you, especially. I’d convinced myself it was never supposed to happen this way, between two men—and perhaps part of me, deep down, resented you for making me want it. God, it does sound rather silly now, but there it is."

"Before I found you again, I'd given up all hope that this existed," Ralph said quietly, giving Spud’s hand a small squeeze. "For someone like me, at least. I suppose that’s why I’ve been putting a hell of a lot on you that maybe you weren’t quite ready for. Funny how much clearer it all is in hindsight, isn’t it? As much as I've been around, there are some things that I—I'm still learning, Spuddy. I'm not such a fool that I can't see that."

Spud reached up to touch the bruise on Ralph’s left cheek. “I know, my dear,” he said gently, before covering Ralph's mouth with his own.

As they continued to lay there in the warm glow of reconciliation and a promise tacitly reaffirmed, Spud’s head nestled against his chest, Ralph felt himself in no great hurry to mull over the uncertainties of the future, or what the war would have in store for the both of them. His mind was curiously free of plans or even the most incipient speculation. There would be time to talk of all that later, when the shadow of crisis had fully passed overhead, leaving them on steadier ground. For now, with Spud gathered closely in his arms, the foreseeable days ahead imbued with renewed purpose and color, he found that he could do what was unthinkable only last night and summon the strength to go on—one step at a time—with courage to navigate whatever course the winds of fate would take him.


End file.
